


Waddle I Do Without You

by PingusWifuuu



Category: Pingu
Genre: Basically Pingu/Walrus, I tried ok, M/M, Multi-authored, Nightmare Fuel, Plot, but hear me out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 00:15:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14738487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PingusWifuuu/pseuds/PingusWifuuu
Summary: In which Pingu's past life returns to haunt him. Webs of deceit, strange dreams, and time travel. If what is yours was never yours, could it still be worth keeping?





	Waddle I Do Without You

Why am I crying?

A flipper lifts tentatively to absorb the liquid emotion. There is a faint sucking sound as feathers suck in the moisture and I lick it off with my tiny pink curled tongue.

Salty.

I grasp at the corners of my mind

(a blaze of brown, terrified eyes shining back from ice mirrors)

and the question evades me. I'm reaching for faint wisps of a dream that I can almost recall, grasping more so at the reason I can feel these strange emotions boiling over -

A dream? I don't remember ever dreaming that night. What was I thinking about again? What dream?

A knock on the door jolts me out of my thoughts and I fling off my covers, effectively falling face-first onto the (literally) icy floor as my tiny feet overbalance with the weight of my body on the human furniture.

' _Noot, _'__ I curse.

Damn tiny penguin feet.

The knocker knocked again. Taking a moment to fumble for my featherbrush and tame wild bed-feathers, I stumbled my way across the flood. My sleep-ridden feet scrabble futilely for purchase. Rubbing my eyes, I reach for the door at the other end of the tiny room. This igloo, no matter how cramped, was too small for one penguin. With a promise of finally getting around to researching Antarctica igloo housing prices, I twist the knob and the frostbitten wood inches open.

My little sister smiles at me, carefree.

I don't deserve that smile.

Yet, I conjure a smile of my own to a worn and weary beak. 'Schelerblerbable.' The words are in my mind, but my articulation tools are weak, unworthy, and grasping.

How long has it been, I suddenly wonder, since she last decided to grace my presence? Has she, by some stroke of morality, decided to ensure that her older brother was coping and surviving this solitary, unaided ice-slide to recovery? Her, enjoying her white powder snow and adventures, while I, her brother, suffer in the silence while I wrestle with the broken parts of my life? Shoved away. Isolated. Locked in a metaphorical closet. How must it feel to be locked away, abandoned - while your family lives an ordinary life, detached from the disaster that is your broken, fractured parts? I hate it. I hate _her, I hate it, I hate it, I hate her, I hate her, I hate them, I hate_

Who?

Pinga bounces past me, closing the door after her. She eyes the bed, unmade and rumpled, then flicks her loaded gaze back to me.

'So,' she says, 'have you had breakfast yet?'

I huff out an impatient breath. A penguin. Single. Lonely. Even if I can spurn myself out of bed, does she _think _I can summon the will and purpose to fish for tuna?__

____

Nevertheless, I have a freeze-dried salmon stashed in a cupboard somewhere for this precise purpose and I waddle over to retrieve it.

____

As I bustle around the kitchen, a book falls to my feet.

____

I glance up, but nothing but impressionless ice stares back at me. Where did it come from?

____

_Satanic Rituals For The Satanic Penguin._

____

Considering the previous owners of this house, I can't say I haven't expected something like that. Memories of the pentacles and the experiments in the basements flooding my mind, I picked up the book to place it on my counter.

____

The book falls open to a page. The title reads _EXPERIMENT #69, TIME TRAVEL._

____

Sounds like the worst type of clique. Either that or the plot of a terrible fanfiction. The pages carry the aroma of dead bugs and old paper, invading my beak-nostrils with dust. I sneeze.

____

'You alright there?' Pinga's light voice carries from across the room and I remember just how small this space is.

____

'Flugrarglebrigns,' I holler back. The word sticks in my feathery penguin throat, uncomfortably tight.

____

'Take your time,' she shoots back, but I'm too busy scanning the page as my tiny penguin mind races at Mach 20 speed. Thoughts connect on that very page. I will be the first penguin to make history.

____

I'll make my _own_ history.

____

These satanic rituals are just what I need.

____

If I can turn back time, I can save myself. If I can save myself, I'll change my very future. Only a few actions of my own will hand myself back what I deserve - my trauma - my parents - the life I was never permitted. I can give that walrus what he deserves, for better or for worse.

____

I sweep a gaze of the ingredients. There are ingredients, like some sort of messed-up cooking recipe.

____

The first one reads: _1 cup of flour._

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The second reads: _Fifteen pints of vanilla essence._

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The final reads: _The body of a virgin._

____

Written at the bottom of the page reads: _Optional hellfire._

____

I run a speedy inventory of the facts. I live in Antarctica, so the optional hellfire seems unattainable as it is. The other ingredients seemed fairly easy to gather. Reaching up to take a bottle of vanilla essence, I tip the whole thing in an Asian wok - the biggest cooking utensil I own and the only one large enough to fit my foster sister. I find a cup of flour lying around, half spoilt but still usable, and dump it into the wok to mix with the essence.

____

Pinga twists in the seat she had taken for herself. She smiles disarmingly. 'Done yet?'

____

I shrug and gesture for her to come closer.

____

'Ah,' she chirps, 'you need help reading the instructions? You don't have to do so much for me -'

____

I swing the knife up, catching her in the gut. I dump my (late) foster sister in the bowl and read the method.

____

_Wait, I was meant to use a blender?_

__

____

__

I shove her into the blender but regret it immediately when I forgot to clip the lid on. The walls of my igloo are now awash blood. I supposed I could clean it when I had returned in the past's future, but for now, I push the bloody soup of feathers and penguin parts into the wok.

__

____

__

I chant some words in Latin written on the page, but the only words that come out are irritated noots. It seems to suffice. After six hundred and sixty-four noots (because apparently the number 666 was overrated), a blazing inferno burst from the Asian wok. A voice in the back of my mind nooted that I would have to buy another.

__

____

__

The hellfire burned emerald and indigo. Flickering tongues lapped at the roof of that despised igloo that held me captive. Flames waltzed in their watery reflection as the ice melted around them and water puddled by the floor.

__

____

__

In the near-blinding hellfire, I examine _Satanic Rituals for the Satanic Penguin _,which I had had the forethought to pick up before the hellfire melted through my ice bench. The hardened ice was no match for the power of heat conduction. My wok was now burning on the floor, rapidly melting a chasm in the floor. I examine the next method. The page is much easier to read now due to the better lighting.__

_____ _

____

_____ _

The next step reads: _Read the time, date and place, then jump into the fire._

_____ _

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_____ _

I take a breath. There is no going back.

_____ _

____

_____ _

Then I realize that I can't talk. Instead, I tear out a bit of paper from the book and write a series of number on the back, then toss the note in. The indigo swirling in the midst turns blue. My walls are now dripping - water running down in rivulets and rivers. My reflection grins back at me through sweltering heat, the image startling and sobering, and my feathers begin to dampen from condensation, then dry from the sheer heat. I am standing in a warm puddle of water (from the melting floor. Obviously.). In the crackling of flames and myriad of colors, I glance up. The roof has melted through and the walls are thinning.

_____ _

____

_____ _

_Crack!_

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The floor violently splinters. My house is falling apart, caving in on me. That seems to be all of the instructions, so I waddle into the fire before the debris can catch me.

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**Author's Note:**

> OOf, who know posting on AO3 was so hard? I COULD NOT get my head around italics, but that's a rant for another day. 
> 
> I'm co-writing this with another author. The plan is that I write the plot (as seen above) and she'll write everything else. Tell us if you liked it! Any opinion would be welcome, but it's our first Pingu fanfiction *proud sniffles* so go easy on us... We're planning on (hopefully) weekly updates if we get enough views.


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